


First Kiss

by The_Inebriated_Literary_Virtuoso



Series: Chronicles of A High Functioning Sociopath and The People That Love Him [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Multi, Mycroft is bad at feelings, Romance, Sherlock is hella gay for John Watson, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, at this point in my life i have no idea what this even is anymore, drunk!John, not gay john is not gay, the Baker Street Boys have many regrets, well that was awkward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-01-27 14:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1713431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Inebriated_Literary_Virtuoso/pseuds/The_Inebriated_Literary_Virtuoso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romance is the lesson of the day for all the men as they grow up and learn how important a first kiss is.<br/>Some have misadventures while others have miscommunications. Things get a bit messy with the romance, and it takes quite a while to sort things out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mycroft Holmes

Mycroft Holmes had grown to be a substantially beautiful man. At the blossoming age of sixteen, however; that had not been apparent. He was very invested in his studies, and very invested in his snacks. It’s not to say that Mycroft overindulged, but, after having eaten too many sweets and not running enough to work them off he was certainly round at the middle. His mother, Violet, had been adamant that it was not his fault and taught him daily to exercise his self-control and habits rather than demean and starve himself.   
“You’re fine, Myc!” She had exclaimed one night after dinner when Mycroft asked if she found him a bit on the rounder side.   
Sherlock had looked at him with a bored expression. “While your physique could rival that of a beached whale I find it very difficult to believe that most of humanity might find you as repugnant as I do.” It was the closest thing to a compliment that Mycroft had gotten from Sherlock in over a year.   
Yet these things, no matter what his family told him, did weigh on him (figuratively of course). He found it difficult not to be self conscious when all around him his peers were slender, lean, and attractive. Mycroft did not delude himself into thinking himself a very attractive boy, but that was what he had academics for. Where his classmates fell short in reason, logic, and statistics, he excelled. Where his peers failed to absorb, learn, and replicate he was vastly over accomplished. He was talented at academics and found that while he may not have been the most handsome boy in his year he would certainly be the smartest. His deductions were lightning fast and his tongue honed like a fine, sharp knife. Mycroft Holmes found that he did not need looks if he had the right brain to manipulate those who did. It was at this time that Mycroft found that he had a very earnest interest in politics and studied to pursue it.   
The problem that Mycroft faced was that while in his years of studying at Eton Academy boys who were attracted to other boys, such as himself, were not looking for brains, but for looks, unlike himself. Mycroft felt isolated in his ideas, but quickly pushed them out of his head. He was to be more influential than even the Prime Minister and he felt certain of that. In his sixteenth year he had already established himself as a very important member of the board of trustees involving his own school and Sherlock’s school. He also managed much of the income to Sherlock’s school and had integrated himself into the workings of the school. This was indeed useful when Sherlock caused a bit of a mess before being assigned home tutors instead.   
So Mycroft never got his first kiss and even when he had been with Richard he found that they had never kissed, only on the cheeks, and even during intercourse there had not been kissing as Richard was never fond of displays of affection in the bedroom. But after that horrid incident Mycroft sealed himself away, became stoic to his workers and professional to his family. Violet Holmes worried about him constantly and knew about his more than lacking love life. She had tried to set him up on dates with polite men and had tried to get him to meet men at her galas, but he was not interested.   
When Mycroft was sixteen, while other boys had been losing their virginity, Mycroft lost his idiocy and delusions. When the boys of Eton graduated and had gotten drunk, Mycroft was immersing himself in internal and external affairs and handling them from behind a cloak and dagger. When young men were just finishing Uni and figuring out what to do, Mycroft had already established a network of politicians and underground watchdogs. Mycroft made the decision, after Richard, to keep to his work, to make sure that nothing else got in the way of that. Caring was not an advantage, something he had told Sherlock many years ago, in his youth. And he had been right, he was always right. Caring led to hurting and hurting led to weakness. The games that Mycroft played in politics didn’t allow for there to be any games.   
Mycroft was forty when Gregory Lestrade asked him out on date after knowing him for more than a decade, and working with him to get Sherlock clean and occupied. Mycroft said yes, if only because he felt it an obligation to a man who had done what he could not and made his brother better.   
Their dinner was quiet, comfortable, and private; just the way that Mycroft likes things. They spoke about music and cinema and Gregory laughed at all of Mycroft’s quips and Mycroft felt satisfied knowing that someone enjoyed his presence. They talked for a long while, forgetting the time until Sherlock interrupted them with a text. Normally Mycroft would be irritated, but after sharing such fine company and wine Mycroft can’t bring himself to be angry with Sherlock. He, in fact, felt grateful and even indebted to him, because had he not been on a downward spiral Gregory Lestrade never would have found him and Mycroft would have only seen his face in passing at bookstores and bars, like he had been.   
They drove to Gregory’s home where Sherlock was waiting in his flat to show him evidence and confessions. They stood outside the flat door and stared at each other for a moment before Gregory was emboldened and took the first step.

Mycroft has his first official kiss when he is forty. And he can’t believe what he had missed.


	2. Gregory Lestrade

It was awkward. That was how Greg Lestrade had described his first kiss to his children later on in life when they had asked. When he was just fifteen he had realized that he was in love with a girl named Heather Jameson. She was kind, sweet, had gorgeous milk chocolate brown eyes, and was in the same year. She smiled at all the boys and laughed at everyone’s jokes. Greg thought she was wonderful. He, at the time, was nothing more than an average boy. He had black hair that, in this state of his life, was spiked to make him look like a punk and he had dark brown eyes that were nothing like Heather’s warm ones.   
He approached his mothers, one night at supper, about how to go about asking this girl on a date. Alex Lestrade shared a fond smile with his mother. Elena Lestrade smiled at him.   
“Sweet, all you have to do is ask her out to a place that you’d like to go. Someplace that is important to you, that you’ll think she’d like.”   
Greg sighed. “I hardly think it matters, mum. I’m not sure if she’d date me anyway.”   
Alex Lestrade winked at him. “Of course she will! You have the Lestrade family charm.” As it was, Heather did say yes. He asked her out on a date to a diner and then to a record shop and he was sure something in the formula of dating had gone wrong from what his mother had said. Because at the diner she seemed almost disdainful of the plastic chairs and homey environment. At the record shop she plug her nose and kept her lips tight and her eyes searched the walls of the shop as if she was sure she was too good to even contemplate going into this establishment. As Greg had talked to her about his favourite bands she’d only nodded and pretended to listen.   
They went home early.   
At Heather’s doorstep Greg knew was when it had truly gone to shite.   
“So. . .” Heather trailed off.   
Greg, ever the gentleman, held out his hand in a friendly good-bye. “Well, that was fun.”   
Heather ignored his words and hand and launched her lips at him. He was more than caught by surprise when she slipped her tongue in his mouth. The kiss lasted short enough that Greg hadn’t worried about her assuming he hadn’t kissed back because when she pulled away she was actually smiling.   
“Good evening, Greg.” She said as she shut the door behind her with a smile.   
Greg stood dumbfounded for a moment on her porch before he slowly walked away and tried to process what had just happened. He had wondered why he hadn’t thought of kissing her all night. He had wondered why he had hoped that her lips might be rougher. Greg knew that she was a commodity, every boy in their year wanted her and even boys from below and ahead of their year sought after her. But he didn’t feel special. He didn’t feel that her gaze was isolated on him, but it was. Greg didn’t feel like she was all that important and even felt that her kiss had been lackluster.   
Greg got home, shut the door, and leaned against it with a heavy sigh.   
His mothers were standing a few feet away from him looking on anxiously.   
“So. . . How did it go?” Elena Lestrade asked him softly.   
Greg let out a soft sigh and looked at his mothers with a face full of certainty, confusion, knowing, and obliviousness. “I think I’m gay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha I totally didn't base this chapter off an awkward date i had once sans the gay revelation
> 
> OKAY SO WHAT DO YOU WANT NEXT CHAPTER? SHERLOCK AND JOHN ANGST OR JOHN WATSON CONTINUOUSLY IN DENIAL?


	3. Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh, this the update,. Sorry for the long wait, tbh I forgot I had to update this fanfiction. So there you go

Contrary to popular belief and to the accusations made by The Woman, Sherlock had been all that curious in matters of physical attraction. Sherlock, from a very young age, was used to being alone and had decided that physical attraction was one of the very few areas he would not partake in. Sherlock was about seven years old when he crashed in the very ordinary John Watson. Ordinary. That was what John to begin with, and then he saw more. No mother, resentful sister, alcoholic father, broken family, still takes care of them, takes good care of them, **_cares_**. John Watson, to contradict Sherlock’s ever changing theories about the human condition, at the age of seven was the most patient, kind, and compassionate person he had seen.   
That same year while John Watson nurtured Sherlock’s bruises from bullies and torment Sherlock was pulled out of school. They had been good friends and even when Sherlock had left for homeschooling John had followed after his days at school. During the day he went to school and afterwards walked the half mile to the Holmes’ estate that more than intimidated him. He’d ring the doorbell and be met with a kind woman who greeted him with bright eyes and a kind word. John wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to have a mother. He would run up the grand staircase up to Sherlock’s quiet, small, and darkened room and Sherlock would grin at him in private.   
Sherlock had never had a friend, had never been trained in his dancing lessons and table etiquette and how to speak three languages how to make friends. He had also never bothered to learn, because Sherlock didn’t need friends, but when John Watson followed him after his year of torment he knew that John would be a friend for a very long time. Even though Sherlock had a friend he never felt that physical drive that others felt. And then something changed. Something ethereal and exalting changed how Sherlock felt about something he had not bothered to contemplate.

Sherlock was seventeen and John was sixteen the year of The Incident. It had been a mess and very much something that both had refused to speak about, even after they got together and when it was brought up at all after it happened there was always an awkward air around the topic. 

* * *

 

“Please, Sherlock!” John asked, pleading and begging.   
“John, as you know I am not entertained by more than a dozen adolescents carousing and making a fool of themselves. I reiterate my previous statement. No.”   
John frowned. “But why not? You’ve never been to one and I just want to have my best mate with me.”   
Sherlock sighed, feeling bored of the tedious subject. “John, I am sure there is a large amount of males from your school who will be willing to go as your ‘best mate’. After all, you are the most amiable of the both of us.”   
John just crossed his arms and sat on Sherlock’s bed as Sherlock occupied himself with a microscope and slide. “I’ll let you do any experiment on me.”   
Sherlock perked up at that and turned quickly to him, his intrigue spiked. “Any?”   
John immediately held up a hand. “Within reason, Sherlock! And only if you go to this party with me.”   
Sherlock examined the possible outcomes of this party against the opportunities for testing that John was offering him. After many minutes of deliberation Sherlock conceded. “Fine. I shall go.” John grinned.   
“Thanks.”   
Sherlock waved a hand and went back to his microscope. “Not a problem, Watson. Just do not expect me to dance.”   
John chuckled. “Like the waltz your mum taught you when we were, what, nine.” Sherlock spun around, his eyes sharp.   
“You had been away that weekend, who told you?” John grinned mischievously.   
“Mycroft and your mum showed me the pictures.”   
Sherlock cursed. “That bastard.”   
John smiled and flopped down on Sherlock’s bed. “He’s not all that bad. Just a bit of a weird bloke.” Sherlock peered into his microscope and wrote a few notes down before he responded.   
“My brother is as pleasant as the Spanish Inquisition to Muslims.”   
John just chuckled.

And when he did Sherlock got a certain feeling. It was inexplicable to him, and had only happened around John Watson. It was an anomaly that Sherlock hadn’t deciphered as good or bad yet and he found it was much more pleasant than unwanted. What was the problem for Sherlock was that this was a reaction to John Watson, friend from Primary and someone who, if Sherlock was being asked, was very decidedly heterosexual. This feeling, this strange concoction of attraction that was bubbling in his stomach, was kept unvoiced and unacknowledged for fear that Sherlock would be alone. He would end up alone like those very small and terrifying years before John Watson and Sherlock did not want to know what it would be like after John Watson. So this feeling, that had been there for more than a year, was just there, and Sherlock didn’t have to pretend that he was not attracted to anyone, because he wasn’t, he was attracted to John Watson.   
“Hey, Sherlock?” John said in a small voice as he stared at the ceiling of Sherlock’s bedroom.   
“Hmm?” Sherlock said noncommittally.   
“I think I’m bisexual.” John said slowly. Sherlock froze in the middle of taking notes. He turned to John and even though he felt vaguely hopefully he refused to believe that he would be this fortunate.   
“Yes?”  
John nodded. “I haven’t told anyone.”   
Sherlock just nodded and john laughed out loud, the noise sounded slightly nervous. “Jesus, Sherlock, I just told you about my sexuality change and you nodded. Bloody hell, what are we going to do with you?”   
Sherlock smiled to cover up his shock. “I suppose you shall have to commit me, after all, I am a sociopath.”   
John laughed. “You keep saying that but I know it’s not true.”   
That night Sherlock dressed as he figured John would have wanted him to and went to the door when John rang. “Hey Sherlo- Oh wow. . . You look. . . You look great, Sherlock.”   
Sherlock felt himself blush beside himself. “Yes well. . . Shall we take our leave?”   
John swallowed visibly and they went. The party was at a dorm and the music shook the walls just outside of the rooms when John and Sherlock arrived. John turned to him. “I just want you to have a good time. Will you be all right?”   
Sherlock nodded, after many years he was used to being put in situations like this and knew exactly what to do if he was not comfortable in any way whatsoever. John smiled at him and they walked in, immediately surrounded by loud greetings, drunken waves, and people greeting John. Sherlock had been right, John Watson was a very amiable man. They were greeted by the host of the party, a thin boy who was tall, and had dark brown hair. He had a smile Sherlock found to be marginally more honest and sincere than those of the unknown peers surrounding him.   
“John! Hey, mate! Didn’t know if you’d make it or not what with your bloke.”   
John blushed and looked at Sherlock. “He’s not my bloke, we’re mates. Best mates.”   
Even in his words Sherlock found that this friend was nothing if not very nice and sincere. Sherlock extended his hand and spoke above the music. “I am Sherlock Holmes.”   
The boy laughed. “No shit! So you are real! We were beginning to think John had just you up! Name’s Mike,” he yelled over the music, “Mike Stamford!”   
Sherlock just nodded. John stared at him in shock and when they went to the area where drinks were being served and it was slightly more quiet John laughed. Sherlock tilted his head in that manner that suggested he didn’t understand. “What?”   
John just nodded. “Nothing. I’ve never really seen you interact with people. It was very surprising.”   
Sherlock scanned the area as he responded. “Oh John don’t be dull. I do talk to people who aren’t you, you know.”   
John nodded. “I know. Just never seen it happen.”   
They stood there for a minute before John turned to the people dancing on the floor and Sherlock sighed in frustration. “Go, Watson. Don’t let me restrict you. Go find a nice girl or bloke to dance with.”   
John looked at him, “Are you sure?”   
Sherlock nodded.

Six hours later Sherlock was having a very nice conversation with one of the drug addicts present who could almost rival Sherlock in deductions. It was fascinating and he was very surprised to find that he had even had two bottles of beer during the game and was even more shocked to find that when the addict left and Sherlock had parted ways with him in a moderately pleasant manner to find that it was almost one in the morning. Just as the addict had left a very drunk and very clumsy John worked his way over to Sherlock.   
Sherlock watched him with careful eyes and gripped him by the waste and carried him away from the alcohol before John could even say a word. They were making their way out of the dorm when John finally spoke.   
“Is tha’ you, Sher?” John said, slurring his words.   
Sherlock frowned down at him from where he was carrying him on his side. “You know I hate that nickname.”   
John laughed. “Bu’ why not? ‘S funny.”   
Sherlock said nothing and just carried him down the street, waiting until he saw a cab.   
“Sherlock?” John asked, in a wondering voice.   
Sherlock was more than irritated by John’s being inebriated. It was a waste of intelligence, it was stupid, and Sherlock knew from many times seeing Mycroft and his courtesans (although he refused to acknowledge them as such and called them boyfriends), that it only led to mistakes and many regrets. “What?” He huffed.   
“Sher. . . Sherlock. . . You’re a angel. . . like a. . . Like a angel, with ya’ high cheekbones, and the coat and the sciencey thing. The science art of deducing. Yeah, that.” John was looking up at Sherlock with a drunken smile.   
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Deduction. John, it’s deduction.”   
John waved a hand in front of Sherlock. “Shh. Yeah. Yeah that. That thing. You’re so smart. How are you smart? Sherlock the world’s only genius. Yeah. Tha’ ‘s gonna be you.” John was slurring and drawing out his **s** ’s and Sherlock could only chuckle at his idiocy.   
“Yes, John.”   
John held on tighter. “And you’re so pretty, Sher. Like, can a man be pretty? If a man could be pretty yeah tha’ is you. The world’s only pretty genius.”   
Sherlock just nodded and graced John with a small smile.   
“Sherlock.”   
It was in this small and almost sober voice that Sherlock paid attention and when he looked down John was no more than a breath away from him. John looked at him, in both of his eyes, and spoke very quietly. “Kiss me.”   
Sherlock should have pulled away. Sherlock should have backed away and let John make a decision like that when he was sober. It was, however; not what they did, They kissed, and for Sherlock it had been brilliant, but John pulled away a moment later and smiled drunkenly. In that moment Sherlock turned away from him, knowing that the way he felt about that moment was not what it meant to John he shut it off. He shut all of his feelings off and sealed them away.   
John laughed and leaned against Sherlock. “You’re great, Sher.”   
Sherlock didn’t say anything as a cab finally showed up and he flagged it down. A week of silence. A week of silence was all Sherlock needed to finally shut away the emotions. The one emotions he let in were friendship and cordiality. Nothing more. A week was also how long it took before John came crashing into his room, his eyes hurt and his fists curled.   
“What the hell, Sherlock?!” He raved.   
Sherlock look over at him. “Hm?”   
John frowned. “I haven’t seen you for a week! You just left me in the cab and I had no idea what the hell happened to you!”   
Sherlock continued the experiment he had been previously working on. “”I am obviously okay. Really, Watson, you’re overreacting.”   
John frowned. “I’m overreacting? You leave me to stumble home after we. . . after the party and then I don’t hear from you for a week, but I’m supposed to be fine?”   
He looked close to having an ulcer, well, as close to an ulcer as a sixteen-year-old can get. Sherlock looked at him and John saw something that almost scared him, an emptiness, a very defining sadness but also a very sad emptiness that showed something in Sherlock had broken. John Watson, for the first time, was very disturbed to look into Sherlock’s eyes.   
He looked away immediately.   
Sherlock gave him a small smile and John was much more comfortable with him. “Yes, John. I do. After all, nothing really happened.” And Sherlock never felt so much like throwing up after telling a lie than in that moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you enjoy? I hope you did!   
> Also, newly added, I've decided that I just can't seem to write about John's part in this story, so I'll be leaving it out for just this once.


End file.
